


i don't know if i can open up: i've been opened enough.

by skuulduggery (killewich)



Series: skuulduggery tumblr drabbles / one - shot replies [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 09:51:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19206952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killewich/pseuds/skuulduggery
Summary: his hands tremble.this is not the first time, and he knows better than both of them that it certainly will not be the last.





	i don't know if i can open up: i've been opened enough.

his hands tremble.

it’s an odd feeling, if he had to be honest. it was of course only something he would admit after having been most likely bloodied, bruised, and shot . . . like twice, at least. his pride was what landed him in this position, anyway.

he takes all of maybe four seconds to attempt to assess the weight of the situation on his psyche before he clocks out. it’s not important. he has a job to do, and that’s all that is important. his work. he was nothing without his work.

perhaps that’s why he stumbles.

these are both small things nobody sees behind his cloak, but it doesn’t make it feel any less raw. it was out in the open as far as he was concerned, and he grits his teeth painfully.

this is not the right reaction, and he pays terribly for it. it’s a debt he has no currency for, no purchase in the sudden lurch his brain takes. his throat wells up, and he dry heaves.

he’s made too much noise.

he ducks to a wall, seeking something grounding. his shoulder hits it first, and it’s as if a switch to his motor skills have short - circuited. the mental phrasing alone does nothing to help him keep upright and collected. his eyes squeeze shut in a last - ditched effort to protect himself, in a very regressed form ‛ if i cannot see it, it cannot see me. ’ but rather than a single object to drown from his vision, it’s a lot and there’s so much trying to nudge into his sights.

this is not the first time.

his grip slackens on his knife. he has half of a mind to just chuck the damned thing, as if it were the weapon’s fault. but it’s not, and he knows very well that taking it out on an inanimate object will do nothing to block out the onslaught of memories that overcrowd his skull. his breathing is too fucking loud and he knows it, he’s so damn aware of everything, and half of it doesn’t even exist. phantom feelings mix with the real feeling of him eventually hitting the ground, and fingers angrily biting into his skull through his balaclava. something, [i]anything[/i], he needs to ground himself quick—

he hears footsteps and his adrenaline, both just as loud and eerily in time echoing through all of it. his chest seizes, and his entire body is on fire. he knows he has a fraction of a minute to move his useless unresponsive body before he’s reached by the very being who lovingly planted each and every single fucking seed, watered, cared for them, until they blossomed so large he’s sure he would burst of roots and branches.

his breath catches, and he’s partially aware of a foot a mere hair from his head. it does nothing to shake any of this, but instead fertilizes more.

he’s a flowerbed of torment, laid before the very gardener, both lifeless and very alive.

tutting cuts through the sound of everything, it’s the only thing that exists for a solid second before it’s followed by syllables and words he has a hard time understanding in a fog. ❝ Oh, herr Spy . . ❞ he feels something flush against his cheek, and the touch alone makes him whip his head backwards so quickly he nearly knocks himself unconscious against the very wall he sought solace in. he would be appreciative of the darker hue that hangs over the endless onslaught of repressed remembrances had it not meant he felt acutely paralyzed. it is enough to knock him out of his spell, but it is not soon enough.

❝ It’s almost a bit embarrassing to end up like this every time, is it not? ❞

he’s suddenly very aware of the knife in his hand. soon after, so is ludwig. the blade is dug into a leg, he isn’t sure which one but it doesn’t matter. it dives in for seconds, thirds, and he soon looses count in the yowls of pain. he’s kicked in the upper stomach area at some point of it all, but he’s doped up on so much adrenaline that nothing else matters but lashing out until he can no longer. akin to a feral creature backed into a corner, he hacks at whatever is in front of him in a frenzy. at some point he’s pretty sure he had screamed out, because his throat is raw. his other arm pushes himself up, and he gains some height. it’s enough to retrieve his revolver from his pocket as the knife is left in whatever chunk of meat it dined on last. he doesn’t bother concentrating on an aim, but he shoots up at a head he’s too acutely aware of the height to. more blood washes on him, and the entire weapon is unloaded as fast as it can.

he only breathes when a body collapses beside him. it’s grossly ragged, and sobs soon follow. they’re tearless, and he clicks the gun’s trigger several more times at nothing in particular. his entire body shakes. he curls into a ball as much as he comfortably can with what he’s sure are three broken ribs. the gun is dropped and forgotten about, and soon everything around him follows the same suit.

his breathing calms down eventually, but only after the body beside him flashes from existence. its disappearance does nothing to soothe his mental state, however. it does serve as a time limit, though, for how long he can continue to wallow here lapping pathetically at his wounds.

he gives one last broken sound before he pushes himself up, eventually landing on his feet. it’s a sad display if anybody had been around to play audience, but then again, so was the entire thing.

he collects his weapons quietly before moving on from the mess below himself. he knows he doesn’t have much longer to put distance between himself and his previous hiding spot, as the other is sure to return quickly. he ducks into a nearby warehouse opening, leaning against a heap of wooden crates to recollect.

his hands tremble.

this is not the first time, and he knows better than both of them that it certainly will not be the last.

**Author's Note:**

> EYO this is the first of three drabbles i'm going to be posting from my old dead spy blog. take a gander at the series info for more details ! !
> 
> this one is post-escape. my blu spy just so happened to be the very blu spy we see being kept in red medic's fridge . . . and we see how well he handles after his escape.


End file.
